CIN-DER-EL-LA.
Not Cin-der-el-la of the glass slip-per—our Cin-der-el-la wore i-ron shoes. She was an In-dian po-ny, and we all loved her. The pet chick-en made a roost of her back, and the white cow licked her glos-sy sides as she would her own calf.
Our four lit-tle out-door boys learned to ride on her gen-tle back, and some-times they all got on at once—Ba-by Frank close to her neck in the curve of Willie's arms, who held the bridle; Ed-die next, with his chub-by hands clutch-ing Willie's sides; and Char-lie last, much a-fraid of slip-ping off be-hind. They were all so small that their short legs stood straight out a-cross her broad back. Mam-ma was nev-er un-ea-sy, for Cin-der-el-la had nev-er been coax-ed out of a walk since they had had her.
But one day a cow came in sight of this horse-back par-ty, and Cin-der-el-la pricked up ears, and started off in a gal-lop! Char-lie slipped off be-hind. Ed-die went o-ver side-wise. Frankie screamed, but Wil-lie held him close, and kept his seat un-til the cow turned off in-to a fence-cor-ner, and lay down. Then Cin-der-el-la stopped, and the boys that fell off came limp-ing up.
They found out that the po-ny had been used on the plains to fol-low cat-tle. Af-ter this, when these boys want-ed a brisk ride, they tried to get be-hind a cow.